Nelson DeMille - The Lion

So I'm sitting in a Chevy SUV on Third Avenue, waiting for my target, a guy named Komeni Weenie or something, an Iranian gent who is Third Deputy something or other with the Iranian Mission to the United Nations. Actually, I have all this written down for my report, but this is off the top of my head.

Also off the top of my head, I'm John Corey and I'm an agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I used to be a homicide detective with the NYPD, but I'm retired on disability-gunshot wounds, though my wife says I'm also morally disabled-and I've taken this job as a contract agent with the Feds, who have more anti-terrorist money than they know how to spend intelligently.

The ATTF is mostly an FBI outfit, and I work out of 26 Federal Plaza, downtown, with my FBI colleagues, which includes my wife. It's not a bad gig, and the work can be interesting, though working for the Federal government-the FBI in particular-is a challenge.

Speaking of FBI and challenges, my driver today is FBI Special Agent Lisa Sims, right out of Quantico by way of East Wheatfield, Iowa, or someplace, and the tallest building she's previously seen is a grain silo. Also, she does not drive well in Manhattan, but she wants to learn. Which is why she's sitting where I should be sitting.

Ms. Sims asked me, "How long do we wait for this guy?"

"Until he comes out of the building."

"What's he going to do?"

"We're actually here to find out."

"I mean, what do we have on him? Why are we watching him?"

"Racial profiling."

No response.

I added, to be collegial, "He is an Iranian military intelligence officer with diplomatic cover. As you know, we have information that he has asked for his car and driver to be available from one P.M. on. That is all we know."

"Right."

Lisa Sims seemed bright enough, and she knew when to stop asking questions. Like now. She's also an attractive young woman in a clean-cut sort of way, and she was dressed casually for this assignment in jeans, running shoes, and a lime green T-shirt that barely concealed her.40 caliber Glock and pancake holster. I, too, wore running shoes-you never know when you might be sprinting-jeans, black T-shirt, and a blue sports jacket that concealed my 9mm Glock, my radio, my pocket comb, and breath mints. Beats carrying a purse like Ms. Sims did.

Anyway, it was a nice day in May, and the big ornamental clock across the street said 3:17. We'd been waiting for this character for over two hours.

The Iranian Mission to the U.N. is located on the upper floors of a 39-story office building off Third Avenue, between East 40th Street and 41st. Because of the U.N., Manhattan is home to over a hundred foreign missions and consulates, plus residences, and not all of these countries are our buds. So you get a lot of bad actors posing as diplomats who need to be watched, and it's a pain in the ass. They should move the U.N. to Iowa. But maybe I shouldn't complain-watching bad guys pays the rent.

I was the team leader today, which is a guarantee of success, and on this surveillance with me were four agents on foot, and three other vehicles-another Chevy SUV and two Dodge minivans. The other three vehicles also have one NYPD and one FBI agent, which means at least one person in the vehicle knows what he or she is doing. Sorry. That wasn't nice. Also, FYI, each vehicle is equipped with the whole police package-flashing lights in the grille, siren, tinted windows, and so forth. Inside the vehicle we have 35mm digital Nikon cameras with zoom lenses, Sony 8mm video cameras, handheld portable radios, a portable printer, and so on. We all carry a change of clothes, a Kevlar vest, MetroCards, Nextel cell phones with a walkie-talkie feature, sometimes a rifle and scope, and other equipment, depending on the assignment. Like, for instance, a little gadget that detects radioactive substances, which I don't even want to think about.

In any case, we are prepared for anything, and have been since 9/11. But, you know, shit happens even when you have a shit shield with you.

High-tech toys aside, at the end of the day, what you need with you is an alert brain and a gun.

When I was a cop I did a lot of surveillance, so I'm used to this, but Special Agent Sims was getting antsy. She said, "Maybe we missed him."

"Not likely."

"Maybe he changed his plans."

"They do that."

"I'll bet they do it on purpose."

"They do that, too."

Another fifteen minutes passed, and Special Agent Sims used the time to study a street and subway map of Manhattan. She asked me, "Where do you live?"

I looked at the map, pointed, and said, "Here. On East Seventy-second Street."

She glanced out the windshield and said, "You're not far from here."

"Right. You have a map of Iowa? You can show me where you live."

She laughed.

A few minutes later, she asked me, "What is that place behind us? Au Bon Pain."

"It's like a coffee shop. A chain."

"Do you think I can run out and get a muffin?"

Well, she had running shoes, but the answer was no, though maybe if Ms. Sims got out of the SUV, and if Komeni Weenie came out of the building and got into a car, then I could drive off and lose Ms. Sims.

"John?"

"Well…"

My radio crackled and a voice-one of the guys on foot-said, "Target exiting subject building from courtyard, out and moving."

I said to Sims, "Sure, go ahead."

"Didn't he just say-?"

"Hold on." I looked into the courtyard that separated the subject building from the adjacent building where two of my foot guys were helping to keep New York clean by collecting litter.

The radio crackled again, and Sweeper One said, "Target heading east to Third."

I saw our target walking through the courtyard, then passing under the ornamental arch and clock. He was a tall guy, very thin, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit. We give nicknames or code names to the targets, and this guy had a big beak and moved his head like a bird, so I said into my radio, "Target is henceforth Big Bird."

Big Bird was on the sidewalk now, and all of a sudden another guy-who I profiled as being of Mideastern extraction-came up to Big Bird. I couldn't make this new guy, but Big Bird seemed to know him, and they seemed happy and surprised to see each other, which is pure bullshit. They shook hands, and I thought something was being passed. Or they were just shaking hands. You never know. But they know or suspect that they're being watched, and sometimes they screw with you.

Anyway, Big Bird has dip immunity, and we're certainly not going to bust him for shaking hands with another Mideastern gentleman. In fact, now we have two people to watch.

Big Bird and the unknown separated, and the unknown began walking north on Third, while Big Bird stayed put. This was all captured in photos and video, of course, and maybe someone at 26 Fed knew this other guy.

I said into the radio, "Units Three and Four, stay with the unknown and try to ID him."

They acknowledged, and Ms. Sims said to me, "I don't think that was a chance meeting."

I did not respond with sarcasm and I didn't even roll my eyes. I said, "I think you're right." This was going to be a long day.

A minute later, a big gray Mercedes pulled up near Big Bird, and I could see the dip plates-blue-and-white, with four numbers followed by DM, which for some unknown reason is the State Department's designation for Iran, then another D, which is Diplomat, which I get.

The driver, another Iranian gent, jumped out and ran around to the other side of the car like he was being chased by Israeli commandos. He bowed low-I should get my driver to do that-then opened the door, and Big Bird folded himself into the rear seat.